


Old Ass Pseudo-Vampires Sing Girls’ Generation and Other Modern Hits

by escspace, hackercatz (beherrscht)



Series: Fun With Friends [5]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Bottom Raizel, Karaoke, M/M, Middle Ragar, Modern Ragar AU, Oral, Slice of Life, Threesome, Top Frankenstein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/beherrscht/pseuds/hackercatz
Summary: Ragar and Frankenstein invite Raizel to karaoke with them, and the three of them end up drunk-fucking.
Relationships: Frankenstein/Cadis Etrama di Raizel, Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama Di Raizel, Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama di Raizel
Series: Fun With Friends [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624360
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: The Modern Kertia Expansion Pack: Keeping Up With the Kertias





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP between brownie and escspace that took place in the Cadiscord server.

The night air nips his skin and gently tousles the locks of hair framing his face such that they brush against his cheek like subtle waves. It is Sir Raizel who stands by his side on this intimate balcony, and Ragar turns to face him, hands on the edge of his black leather jacket. Though he knows that such a mild chill would not trouble those such as themselves, he feels compelled anyway to make an offering. “Sir Raizel, are you cold? Perhaps you would like my jacket?” he asks, in near perfect imitation of those porcelain-faced actors both of them have seen on the television more than once. Somehow, dealing in human cliches still feels novel to him.

Before Raizel can answer, however, Frankenstein finally emerges from the bathroom of the bedroom; the deep red pocket square matches the red vest he has chosen to wear tonight. His smile is magnetic, drawing Ragar’s gaze away from the stars to stare at something that glimmers to a greater degree. His expression is sharp but softens into saccharine when he turns to Sir Raizel. “Are we ready, Master?”

At the sudden assault of questions Raizel's gaze flickers between Ragar to Frankenstein, conflicted as to which of the inquiries to return first. Assuming it would be most appropriate to reply in order, he first turns to Ragar and murmurs, "It is alright, Ragar. The breeze is...pleasant." Afterwards, he tilts his body to face Frankenstein, eyes roaming to appreciate the clothes that he has chosen to don this evening, and returns the smile with a soft one of his own. "Yes. We shall be on our way."

It is Ragar who slides into the driver’s seat of their car. The constant rumble of the asphalt road and the slow, melodic music keep him company as his two companions nestle with each other in the backseat. The drive to their haunt of the night seems to momentarily exist outside of conventional time and space. He can imagine the road as being endless and time as being still. They are driving, contained within a vehicle that separates them from both the earth and sky and even their very history, no one and nowhere, until, finally, Ragar pulls into a parking spot on the side of the street. He is the first to step back into reality and outside of the car, beelining to the passenger side to yank open the door for Sir Raizel. The vehicle’s shine is cold against his palm. “We have arrived, Sir Raizel, Frankenstein,” he announces as though they do not already know. The large sign written in neons behind him casts a saturated glow onto the shiny ripples on his dark jacket and spills over his shoulders to even streak the dark interior of the car.

Raizel carefully steps out, elegantly setting himself straight while he absorbs the many dazzling unfamiliar sights presented in front of him—humans are so  _ alive _ . The vivid light casts a harsh shadow upon his innocently young form as he aimlessly wanders, lulled by all the alluring energy resonating in the depth of night, like a victim lured by the siren. His straying thoughts are steadied when Frankenstein places a feather-light touch upon his shoulders along with a soft, "Master, that's the wrong direction." Raizel follows Frankenstein's eyes silently to see Ragar standing in front of a discreet door that leads underground. When their eyes meet, Ragar steps into the establishment after a short bout of unspoken communication. "Many of these places are questionable, but I know a place. It is this way."

By the time the two of them join Ragar inside the karaoke place, Ragar has already procured the pamphlet and the remote in his hand. "Room 102," he says, to Frankenstein more than Raizel, or so he assumes as Raizel has no idea where that is. Frankenstein nods to him then leads Raizel forward, with a light touch on his cuffs with his gentle fingers. Raizel trails behind the two of them wordlessly, taking in the electrifying music turned up high enough to elicit goosebumps on his skin. 

The air conditioning of the room rivals that of the night air, and Ragar is not sure which is colder as he steps inside, holding the door open for the other two, eyes respectfully low with the air of being a host himself. Appropriate, he supposes, as he is the one who had proposed such an outing in the first place. The venue is not unfamiliar to him and Frankenstein; he only hopes Sir Raizel as well will find it suitable to his tastes.

Raizel takes in the room like how he has taken in everything ever since he has stepped out of the car: with awe and adoration. It is a spacious, fancy area made only for a single purpose that is singing; a flat screen TV fills one entire side of the wall with the karaoke machine attached underneath and a makeshift stage in front. Closer to the door is a big square kotatsu with the seats carved into the flooring, the pillows and blankets strewn across them naturally.

When Frankenstein closes the door behind him, the warm orange lights dim until there is nothing but the soft glow of the TV to brighten the entire room. Ragar clears his throat and presses the button on his remote, and the television comes to life with vibrant colors in response. Soon, the entire room is painted in saturated lights, the sight paralleling the neon glow he's seen outside. When Raizel settles in the seat, hugging the pillow that digs into his back, his two companions settle by his side—Frankenstein to his right, Ragar to Frankenstein's right. "Alright, choose a song," Frankenstein beckons, sliding the booklet of song numbers towards Ragar.

Ragar’s sharp eyes slide over the array of music until it lands on miss A’s “Bad Girl, Good Girl,” number 32773, and it takes even less time for him to input his selection. He shifts forward, reaching for a microphone and tugs at his mask as the psychedelic shapes of different colored lights fall over his face, turning his pale skin into a strange kaleidoscope. He spares a glance at his companions. Frankenstein is smirking at him, knowingly, challengingly. Sir Raizel, on the other hand, watches on in seemingly bated breath, expression gentle and curious. Ragar never wishes to disappoint.

Drawing the microphone closer to his lips, still covered by the mask, he straightens and performs as he is certain no other noble, at least of his generation, has performed.  _ “You don’t know me, you don’t know me...” _

The upbeat music reverberates through his chest, the empowering energy of the sound blending into various memories and sensations, embellishing his own ideas of himself. He misses not a single note, note single beat, his voice as easy as his silence. He catches Frankenstein in the corner of his eye, and while his friend might performatively scoff at such modern candy-colored songs, the touch of approval in his eyes does not go unnoticed. Suddenly, Ragar feels just as impressive as the song compels its listeners to be.

Raizel watches intently, expression brightening at the intro he recognizes—his friends would often play this song along with other idols’ music, asking for his opinion that he couldn't offer. He places his hands on his lap and fixes his enthusiastic attention upon Ragar as he steadily proceeds into the song. Frankenstein, to his left, scoffs then doesn't even  _ look _ at the pages as he punches in his five-digit number into the queue.

He turns to Raizel afterwards, the remote still on his fingertips ready to choose a song. "Would you...like to help us choose a song, Master?" he asks hesitantly, his finger curling on the top of the booklet. Raizel shakes his head, and tells Frankenstein through the link,  _ Ragar is singing. _ Frankenstein instantly accepts Raizel’s decision, turning his head towards Ragar and laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

When Ragar finishes, he raises his hands to clap like how his friends would often do when one of them sings during their outings. Ragar drops down from the stage to pass Frankenstein the microphone, and at the sight, Raizel finds that he wants to join them, somehow. But,  _ choosing a song... _

Ragar knows he cannot rival Frankenstein’s receptivity to Raizel, but he is nonetheless the observant type, and so notes to himself how Sir Raizel’s gaze lingers on the book of songs and then drifts over to the microphone as it is handed off to Frankenstein. His song of choice, Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon,” is one Ragar is well familiar with as well. As Ragar settles in his seat, crossing his arms, he allows his eyes to slip closed. The multicolored lights that pass over his face make muted shades of his darkened vision. The backdrop of Frankensteins voice is as luxurious as velvet and sweet as honey, though this hardly surprises him. Ragar knows that Frankenstein seeks excellence in all things, especially in things as performative as this. 

The lyrics are longing and achingly romantic. There is a particular intimacy in his tone that even Ragar can hear at the words “ _ You are all I long for, all I worship and adore...” _

Slowly, Ragar opens his eyes to find Sir Raizel staring at his Bonded with a mixture of awe and hesitation. Ragar looks between them before settling his attention on his liege. “Sir Raizel,” he calls, leaning closer, wondering if this would ground him. “Are you enjoying yourself? Perhaps we should acquire snacks and drinks as well. Is there anything you would like, Sir?”

Raizel watches profusely despite the harsh light that streaks across his vision, fixated upon witnessing yet another one of Frankenstein’s facets. When the one on stage suavely sings the lyrics while looking right into Raizel, he guiltily shifts his eyes down, unable to meet either of his companions' gazes. He doesn't feel deserving of Frankenstein's overflowing dedication and perseverance, nor of Ragar's friendship, all so freely offered to him without question. But he understands that his companions do not like it when he questions their gifts, so he falls silent, instead determinedly enjoying everything, once again meeting Frankenstein's eyes with all the reverence he feels.

At the mention of food, he feels a little hungry, as much authentic hunger as he is capable of feeling, at least. "Yes," he immediately replies, turning away from Frankenstein with some disappointment. "I am enjoying this immensely," he says without much change in his expression. Many people would consider him  _ deadpanning _ , but he knows that these two understand him enough to know that he is being wholly truthful. "And I would like to get... snacks." He nods intently, Frankenstein's pleasant voice still echoing around in the air, and his veneration heavy in his mind.

"Of course, Sir," Ragar answers as he nods. He turns his eyes expectantly to Frankenstein as the final notes drift from him skillfully.

The expression he makes for Sir Raizel is a rare, wonderful thing to witness, and Ragar is privy to it. "Master, are you certain you do not wish to pick a song?" 

"Sir Raizel would like food and drink," Ragar answers in his stead. 

Frankenstein perks up, microphone still in hand. "Right away, Master." He sets the microphone down, and, with nearly absurd agency, marches towards the door. "I will return shortly," he decides, and the door shuts solidly behind him, leaving the two of them remaining.

Riazel observes the conversation between the blondes with usual graciousness, noting the ease that they show to each other. Frankenstein feels guilty about Raizel's lack of participation, but he sends his bonded a gentle nudge within their link to assure him—Raizel has always been more comfortable as a neutral observer, and that they enjoy his presence so much that they were willing to invite him despite his sheer lack of knowledge is more than enough for Raizel. 

The ensuing silence is, somehow, just as loud as any music, a hard contrast. "Sir Raizel, I am very glad you are able to join us tonight," Ragar says as he hopes the look in his own eyes is a gentle, earnest enough smile for his liege. He nods nostalgically, eyes sliding closed then open again. "Knowing Frankenstein, he will likely return with a generous amount of drinks as well." He pulls at his mask and sighs softly, nearly feigning exasperation, but the both of them know that it is ultimately fondness.

With the song over, the light gradually dims until there is only the menu's lights illuminating the vast room. To the two nobles, the darkness doesn't debilitate their sight in the slightest. "I am... glad that you have all invited me here." He feels like he is an intrusion, an artifact of the past come to haunt their worldly nostalgia, but he knows they've spent enough time by themselves and wishes for his companionship. The silence, after so much assault to his visual and auditory senses, feels odd. He lets his eyes drop, the crimson gaze grazing over the booklet with the numbers. "Do you... not wish to choose a song, Ragar?"

"Sir Raizel..." Ragar begins, gears turning in his mind as he looks at him, boldly, perhaps even intimately, red eyes raised instead of downcast in his usual, archaic deference. "It would honor me to choose a song with you." The cover of the book slides across the smooth birch table as Ragar drags it closer to them both. "Perhaps we shall have a duet. I am certain Frankenstein will enjoy the performance once he returns." He punctuates his words with a tug of his mask, eyes bright and smiling, inviting and offering.

Raizel snaps his head towards Ragar, staring with a mix of excitement and terror and anticipation. He flips open the page of the booklet, the words on the page not registering any meaning to him as random abstract black dots on a plane of white. "I do not know... any of them," Raizel admits, eyes scanning for  _ something _ familiar, although he is already aware that he will find none. He has encountered the melody of a few, from his friends blaring idol music while talking amongst themselves, but he does not know their names, nor are any of them duets. Raizel's eyes roam around the pages blindly. There are just so  _ many _ . "I request your assistance on the matter. Would you help me to choose a song, Ragar?" 

Thankfully, when he nudges him through the bond they share, Frankenstein seems occupied, busy precariously stacking endless snacks on his two arms (and drinks, as Ragar has mentioned before. He recognizes some of them to be bottles that he would not be able to purchase with the Yeran school uniform.) He clears his throat, attention focusing back on Ragar. "Do you... have something in your mind?" he questions awkwardly.

Ragar is perceptive enough to notice Raizel's request for assistance, and so nods confidently, hoping that in doing so, he can also impart upon Sir Raizel that same feeling. Realizing that perhaps the book itself might be unfamiliar to Sir Raizel—and it is—Ragar runs his fingers down a column of numbers. "These are the codes we enter with the controller to choose a song." His fingers glide over to another column. "This is the artist name." Then another column: "The song title." The tone of his explanation is patient and amicable, suggestive of something more than just requisite deference to his liege and sovereign, something of personal interest. He looks at his Sir Raizel, whose depth of kindness and duty remain an unweathered compass rose even after all of this time. Finally, a song catches Ragar's eye, something by Girls' Generation. He turns the pages towards him and taps a row once lightly with his finger. "Perhaps this might be to your liking as well. I am fairly certain you've heard this in passing before, but the lyrics will be on screen even if you do not recall them." 

After receiving a light nod, Ragar stands to collect a second microphone. When he again returns to Raizel's side, his attention is held by the glimmer with which Raizel watches him as the mic is handed off. Their fingers brush briefly, both soft against the other. He might call the expression Sir Raizel wears admiration, but Ragar does not quite know what could be admired about him at the moment. "Are not pleased with the selection, Sir?" he asks, though such a question is only a roundabout way of prompting Sir Raizel to speak of what could truly be on his mind. Ragar knows it is not the particular pop song that has affected his Noblesse in such a tenderly curious way.

He listens to all of Ragar's explanation with grave concentration, then follows the index finger to stare down at the clause of words he  _ still _ does not understand. With this information he shifts his view sideways on the page to notice that he  _ does _ recognize some of the groups vaguely;  _ SHINEE _ is a group that Yuna often enjoys discussing, and  _ Wonder Girls _ is often mentioned by Ikhan. He doesn't know the song that Ragar picks out, but he nods along, and when Ragar views him oddly and questions him, he merely shakes his head. "I—" he starts, but hesitates, starting over. What plagues him is for him to carry alone, as are the burdens of his powers and his limited life, and he does not want to worry his two companions when they both wish the best for him. They would only feel guilty over what had been utterly out of their control, when their only sins had been  _ existing _ in his absence. He has caused them more than enough grief. "It is fine, Ragar." He nods with determination, fingertip curling against the microphone. "I wish to begin." He adds when Ragar continues to stare at him in the particular way, wanting to join in on their endless pool of recollections. 

The song is one he  _ does _ recognize, one that Suyi would sing to herself as she brushes her hair with the phone camera on, that the other classmates would blare out in the middle of recess. He familiarizes himself to the rhythm, and when the lyrics appear on screen, he begins with an awkward, "T-Tell me your wish, tell me the little dreams in your heart..."

Frankenstein walks in during the middle of the song, four bags hanging from his two arms, and when he finds his Master singing on the center stage, he offers the biggest smile he is capable of producing. Raizel has none of the stability that Ragar has, nor the flaunt that Frankenstein possesses, but his two partners regard him with such fond endearment that his cheeks color lightly, hardly visible under the heavy lights yet felt all the same. When Raizel is done with one part, Ragar immediately follows with his own steady voice, "Sit next to me, throw your everything into my enticement..." 

Around the second verse, Raizel's performance anxiety eases but he is by no means any less rigid. Frankenstein begins to organize all he's brought from the convenience store—snack bags, many packets of juices and bottles of alcohol, various anju to be consumed alongside the beverages, and of course, ramen—while facing his two lovers pass the song from one to another. Raizel tilts his body to face his duet partner, looking into his eyes as he continues.

Ragar subtly dips his head in acknowledgement as he picks up the next verse. He knows the song well enough by heart to let his gaze linger on Sir Raizel, who gazes back with a timeless sort of quality. Perhaps Ragar is not as powerful as the bonded pair; perhaps he is not as attuned to the silent ways of communication that occur between the other two; perhaps he is no one and nothing special, but there is something he knows he shares with Sir Raizel, and it dares him to narrow the distance between them, stepping forward as he extends an open hand, not as a vassal to a sovereign but as a friend to a friend. 

Ragar is not unfamiliar with the tension between seemingly unquestionably duty and personal desire. To forfeit one’s own title and the identity and powers that go with it is not something Ragar expects of Sir Raizel, because he is aware of the magnitude of its weight. Ragar himself has done the unspeakable, the unthinkable—traitorous, reckless, naive Ragar, in pursuit of his own notions of virtue in a seemingly virtueless universe. If Sir Raizel’s own righteousness beckons him to be more ‘The Noblesse’ than ‘Rai,’ Ragar will not question him on this as he also does not question himself for being more ‘Ragar’ than ‘Sir Kertia.’ Nonetheless, here they both are, sharing time and space, living, at least for the moment, quaint human lives and doing quaint human things with wonderful selfishness. 

When Raizel accepts his hand, Ragar sways their arms together, inviting him into his own graceful motions, beckoning Raizel to move as he moves in a vague imitation of what Ragar remembers of the popular choreography, to experience the joys of kinetics and sounds together. It is Raizel’s microphone he leans into to sing his final line.

Raizel feels ill-fitted between the smooth choreography Ragar demonstrates, but he follows with single determination and hopes he is better at this compared to his video game performance. When Ragar tips his head forward, putting his hand away, Raizel assumes that it is his turn so he raises his microphone, but Ragar instead tips his head towards  _ him _ to sing, " _ Tell me your wish. _ " Raizel almost drops the microphone in surprise, but he succeeds in keeping a steady grip upon it,  _ somehow _ . Ragar returns Raizel's insistent gaze with a shine of admiration, which Raizel smiles bashfully back to. For eons, all admiration for him had been rooted in visceral fear of his capabilities and his duty as the judge to all regarding their execution. Yet these two have chosen to keep his company nonetheless, have  _ chosen _ to stay by his side even when he is merely Rai, an ordinary Yeran student.

With the song finished, the neon lights slowly dissipate as the TV asks for the next number—but he keeps his eyes locked with Ragar. He can feel the faint smile on his own face, and Ragar responds with a warm crinkle of his eyes. "Thank you," Raizel whispers in a voice barely audible, nearly impossible to catch even in the silence. His eyes flickering over to where Frankenstein has neatly placed the snacks on the table, he carefully takes Ragar's hands so they can drop down from the stage arm to arms. Frankenstein smiles at both of them warmly as they take their seats on the sofa, passing a Cup Ramen that's already begun to swell to Raizel, and a bottle of something Raizel doesn't recognize towards Ragar. "Had fun, Master?" He murmurs softly to Raizel, to which Raizel nods.

Receiving the bottle from Frankenstein, Ragar says, “Have you pre-poisoned this?” He lifts his brows expectantly. 

“Of course I have,” is Frankenstein’s response. 

“It is your turn to pick a song.” 

The acrid burn of alcohol easily slips past his lips. It is not terribly long before he feels the warm onset of a buzz and concludes that Frankenstein must have dumped a whole bottle’s worth of their usual intoxicating drug into Ragar’s drink. This does not stop either of them from finishing the bottle within the next four songs between them. The snacks are leisurely picked at and appear curious under the drifting jewels of neon lights as they pick up abstract shines. 

By now, Frankenstein has become carefree enough to belt out the lyrics of The Cross’ “For You” with somewhat shaking sentimentality, lamentful and gritty. Ragar watches him carefully but without surprise until he turns to observe Sir Raizel as well, who appears to be witnessing something entirely novel, almost like seeing a ghost in one’s own house. He notices Ragar’s gaze and then they both turn back to watch Frankenstein finish and saunter to his seat as he smiles loosely at them both, as charismatic as ever even if not as poised as before. 

“Master, perhaps you’d like to try another song?” Frankenstein prompts as he absently opens another bottle. 

Raizel’s expression briefly brightens, turning hopeful, but something within him pulls him back and he shakes his head. This, Ragar regards curiously, but he does not comment on it. “I would like...to hear another from you, Frankenstein,” is what Raizel decides on instead. 

“Me?” Frankenstein blinks at him slowly, his mind catching up to his own words. Then, he smiles with all of the prideful regard he has for his master and nods. “Gladly, Master,” he utters.

When Raizel watches Frankenstein perform, Ragar finds himself, this time, watching Raizel. His sharp eyes pick out the minute changes in his expression even under the psychedelic lighting, and there is something both tender and melancholic in his eyes—eyes that are so focused at once on his Bonded, now nearly wailing the lyrics to the song, each breath charged with emotion not commonly revealed to just anyone. 

Ragar pulls at his mask, and he and Raizel exchange a glance whose meaning Ragar is not quite sure of, but Ragar smoothly focuses his attention on Frankenstein for a moment afterwards. He watches his friend with an unspoken but obvious familiarity, and again, tilts the contents of a bottle down his throat before audibly setting it down and standing up. Ragar strides over to the stage. Frankenstein’s expression flits curiously at the sight of him but becomes cunningly welcoming as Ragar steps forward closer then closer still. The way Frankenstein’s hand drifts to rest on Ragar’s hip is shameless.

Raizel stares at the two of them ensorcelled by their confident voices, their bodies gently swooning to the rhythm of the song. Both of them are impressive performers by themselves, but they show great synergy put together; especially with alcohol as the catalyst that tips Frankenstein's mood just enough to hold his ranting tongue for once. His Bonded suddenly swivels forward and leans on Ragar, letting him take his weight to sing into the microphone Ragar is holding--while Ragar is  _ still singing _ . Despite the sudden interruption, there is not even a hint of dissonance between the two, with Frankenstein knowing just what notes to hit in order to harmonize with Ragar. Raizel takes a sip of the Capri Sun as the two continue to sing in sync, Frankenstein in baritone and Ragar in tenor. 

Raizel, despite sharing the blood pact, could never sing like this with Frankenstein, and he knows that this is beyond the issue of his hibernation. Their relationship is not one of complementation, but one of allegiance and protection; sire and knight, master and servant. Regarding Raizel, Frankenstein has always found peace on his knees. He can only be glad that Ragar had been there to stabilize his contractor in his absence, offering what he could offer him uniquely. 

He doesn't know if it's the sheer intoxication bleeding from Frankenstein and into his mind, or the atmosphere of the room playing a trick on his psyche, but he settles down into a state of fluffy daze. Frankenstein's and Ragar's voices echo nicely from a distance, and he sees that they've started to make out on the stage, music half-forgotten. He has half a wish to join them, but it is... comfortable. On the sofa. With the pillows. So he adopts the role of the contented voyeur.

The music and lights do strange things to his consciousness, embellishing his experience, romanticizing the sensations he feels against his body. Lights pass over his eyelids, closed as he indulges in the taste and press of Frankenstein's mouth, breath scented with harsh intoxication. They breathe each other warmly. Ragar subtly grinds his hips against him as Frankenstein slips a broad hand under his shirt, fingers tracing over the tight muscles of Ragar's lower back and nearly making him shiver. Ragar sighs when they come up for air, face warm.  _ "That's what you are... My destiny..." _ he murmurs, the final lines to Paul Anka's operatic “You Are My Destiny”. His fingers trail down the lapels of Frankenstein's jacket as he gives him a coy sort of look, something both demure and enticing. Frankenstein receives this with a smirk of his own, equally beguiling. 

In the corner of his eye, Ragar sees Sir Raizel, now watching them with a dazed sort of expression that Ragar knows holds much personal meaning, an expression that only occurs within the existence of great history between loved ones, a melancholic admiration only possible when one regards another in tragically and wonderfully intimate ways.

Ragar wonders if he is deserving of such a gaze, but he is not one to question what Sir Raizel imparts upon him—what judgements Sir Raizel has passed.

He becomes mildly distracted, however, by a sudden weight against his back. Frankenstein stumbles into him in his inebriated state and rests his head sleepily against his shoulder. Ragar turns just in time to steady his friend in order to guide them both back to their seats.

Raizel slides himself to the side as Ragar takes the limp Frankenstein and carefully arranges him on the sofa, though his limbs are too long to be contained by the furniture even through effort. After a while, Ragar grunts and leaves his friend be, going for another bottle. Raizel watches with mild fascination as Ragar lowers his mask to pour the liquid directly into his esophagus, only a  _ slight bit _ more responsibly than Frankenstein. The influence they have had over each other during his missing years seems to have been two-way, Ragar having shown Frankenstein a stoic regality, and Frankenstein having tainted his friend with reckless human vigor. 

Raizel, disconnected from them, feels naught but a narrator to their story. Nothing but merely a pair of eyes to keep the story objective, although he knows that is blatantly untrue. He knows that they care for him, that they enjoy his presence; yet his mind cannot stop picking out the changes they had undergone while he had stayed obstinately constant for eight hundred and twenty years. Does he even  _ deserve _ their perpetual kindness? He is nothing more than a phantom of the past between them.

Sitting here in the eye-irritating neon lights, nothing quite registers to Raizel. 

Frankenstein's head lolls to the side, his unfocused eyes finding their way to Raizel's face. "Master..." He slurs, expression romantic and placid. "You're here," Frankenstein says finally, disbelievingly. "You're  _ here _ ..." 

"Yes," Raizel replies, the guilt twisting in his stomach viscerally. 

"You won't be gone when I wake up?" His voice is teary and hopeful. Frankenstein would never show this weakness, not even to  _ Raizel _ , while being perfectly sober; it is a good measure on how inebriated he is, as well as how exhausted he has been late, shouldering the weight of everything.

"I will be here," Raizel whispers softly. He is not sure if Frankenstein has managed to catch the words—or it is because of the calm he projects through their link?—but Frankenstein's eyes slip shut, falling to a proper state of sleep. When Raizel turns to address the other noble, he comes face to face with Ragar's inquisitive pair of eyes. They watch him, only slightly glazed compared to usual, the only hint as to what his compromised state of mind might be. Not being the one for starting conversation, Raizel stares back. Gazes locked, the silence continues, but Raizel does not find it uncomfortable. Maybe this is further evidence that he is but a ghost between the living, but he likes to think that there is a sense of understanding he finds in Ragar's eyes. He wants to think that Ragar understands what he is going through. 

Ragar clears his throat, bringing his fist to his mouth to cough into it gently. "Sir Raizel." 

Raizel nods, graceful as ever, not knowing how to be anything but. "Yes." 

"Would you like to... try another?" Ragar questions. 

Raizel, thinking of the karaoke, nods. Instead Ragar scoots closer to Raizel, and without any preamble, tips Raizel's chin and kisses him deeply. Although it's unexpected, it's not an unwelcome surprise, and Raizel responds accordingly when the action properly registers in his mind, tilting his face to move his mouth smoother. Through the mask it is no easy task, and kissing Ragar is notably different from kissing Frankenstein (which is akin to being devoured).

Ragar, perhaps slightly more bold than he ought to be, finds his hands ruffling Raizel's shirt, the fabric crinkling and folding against his wrist as his hand touches Raizel's stomach and then chest, feeling him everywhere. How obscene, how  _ sacrilegious _ , he thinks. Perhaps in the haze of alcohol, he does not find himself deterred from being so forward. Perhaps in this state, he can allow their bodies to crush together as he tips Raizel backwards until he is leaning over his Noblesse. But, to call Raizel such a thing is not entirely accurate; in this moment, Sir Raizel is more "Rai" than "Noblesse" to him, and Ragar knows at least one thing about Rai: he is his friend. There are liberties Ragar can grant himself that Frankenstein cannot when it comes to Sir Raizel. 

Even when his mouth is gentle against Raizel's, his hands are swift and demanding, blunt nails lightly drawing lines against soft skin. "Sir Raizel..." he whispers when they part, his mask now damp and clinging. "I am...so glad we have found you, after all of this time..." Something in his voice wavers uncharacteristically, unlike his usual, sober composure. He sounds nearly emotional, and Ragar buries his own embarrassment by pushing their mouths together again, more hungrily this time. A hand reaches for Raizel's belt.

As Ragar's deft fingers reach for his belt, his eyes flick down and upwards to the other man's face. He cannot know if it is the alcohol or his long exposure to the human ways that drives Ragar to be so bold—perhaps it is a mix of both?—but he is reluctant to stop him. More and more, he wishes to stop being a bystander and an observer from the past and become a member of the present, although he doesn't think he could ever become  _ this _ forward even through change—it simply doesn't fit his own nature. 

"I am... also glad that you have found me," Raizel hisses as Ragar's head tips under to leave a kiss against his neck. "Both of you." And he truly is; he believes that Frankenstein eventually would have found him in  _ any _ timeline, even if he had to tear apart the earth's core for it—for that is Frankenstein's nature, passion and plasma and fury—yet it has not only been Frankenstein that he had managed to find outside Lukedonia after such a long time, but also Ragar. Ragar, who would have had to place down everything for this connection, for this fateful reencounter. He cannot find the words that would be capable of containing his sentiment, so he loses himself to the moment like his companion—he curls his hands against the other’s hip and brings them forward so they can grind awkwardly together, mimicking what he remembers seeing between Frankenstein and Ragar.

In the corner of his eye, Ragar spots Frankenstein stir drowsily, but his friend does not wake. For now, the two of them share an intimate privacy, unbeknownst to even Frankenstein.

Ragar sighs amicably and perhaps a little sleepily, though that sleepiness is soon replaced by something more eager and heated, a determination to show Raizel a so-called 'good time.' As he pulls apart the belt with one hand, Ragar reaches for Raizel's wrist with the other and brings Raizel's fingers to his mask so that the tips catch on the edge of the black fabric. Ragar's red gaze is clear and beckoning. "Will you unmask me, Sir?"


	2. Chapter 2

Raizel's fingers brush against the fabric, thumb just barely sliding under the mask. Gently, he presses the cloth downwards to tuck it under his chin, feeling enamored as he does so: how must it be to be like Ragar, able to place down his duties, to free himself from any and all responsibility? Of course, Raizel’s continued stay in Frankenstein's home over the dreary mansion in Lukedonia is not a selfless decision, but he could never truly divest himself of everything like Ragar has done, even forfeiting Kartas to surrender his position utterly. There are— _ were _ —thirteen clan leaders, that are now six. There is only one of the Noblesse. Who would he be, if not the Noblesse? Cadis Etrama di Raizel does not know how to be anyone else  _ but _ the Noblesse. The thought twists his stomach like nothing else.

His eyes flicker to the side, gaze landing on Frankenstein's prone, unconscious form. So vulnerable, living in the moment without a single thought— _ human _ . He wishes to become like this, he  _ aspires _ for such life, to fit in between the mayflies in their moment of glory. Raizel does not know if he can achieve it, but he wants to try, so he pulls Ragar's head closer and initiates another kiss, slipping his tongue into his mouth awkwardly, trying to fit his lips comfortably around the other noble.

Ragar is taken aback a little by Sir Raizel's mustered forwardness but effortlessly eases into him nonetheless, now able to pull his partner deeper, mouth liberated to be as vulgar as they both desire or, rather, have learned to desire. He does not bat an eyelash at the lascivious trail that glints between their lips when he pulls away, and almost like prayer, Ragar lowers himself with timeless grace, as easily as water flows down a stream, always seeking further places to fall. Ragar makes a gentle sound as he invites Raizel's cock past his lips and lets him dip into his throat, penetrating a place Ragar once religiously kept covered. Humming low, he peers upwards, red gazes catching each other as he slicks the length in his mouth in profane and indulgent ways, confident in his learned performance.

Sir Raizel grows hard inside of him, thick heat pressing against the inside of his cheek and his tongue. The stretch of cock in throat is a sensation that focuses his attention with vivid sharpness, and Ragar has come to appreciate this perhaps almost as much as he knows Frankenstein would.

Raizel breathlessly stares down to meet with Ragar who takes him deeper and deeper, lips curling around the intrusion in his mouth without much difficulty. Not wanting to be rude or too invasive but wanting to participate  _ somehow _ , he carefully removes his right hand from its place curled against his thigh to place it on the top of Ragar's head, pads of his fingers sliding against the smoothness of his hair. Despite possessing a golden shine like Frankenstein's, it does not curl in the same ordered chaos with which Frankenstein arranges his locks, and instead all flows down. Raizel drifts his hand downwards until the palm of his hand cradles Ragar’s cheek. 

It's not his first nor is it even his tenth time being on the receiving end of a blowjob, but his face flares at the sheer intimacy implied in such action nonetheless. He feels pleasure stir and rise from him—learned, but in no means false—and he presses Ragar closer to him, because they are in a foreign environment where spilling anything is unfavored. Ragar's throat tightens around him and he blanks for a split second as he empties himself right into his companion’s stomach. Ragar swallows dutifully, only pulling away when Raizel is finished, pulling back slightly to clean the specks of white left over. When Ragar's eyes flick up, questioning, Raizel tips Ragar's chin up to fit their mouths once again, kissing languidly and sincerely. He paws at Ragar's clothing, fingers dipping under his belt like how Ragar's own had mere minutes ago.

Ragar's hips rock subtly towards Raizel. "Do you...wish to take this further, Sir?" he inquires. His eyes flick to the side. 

Frankenstein has quietly awoken, or at the very least, half awoken. There is a cozy flush on his face, and he leans sluggishly back into the sofa, taking in the view. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and Ragar interprets this as a challenge. 

His focus returns to Sir Raizel as Ragar leans forward to murmur by his ear, "Shall I show you, Sir, how it is Frankenstein treats one he considers a friend? Shall I fuck you in a place as indecent as this without remorse? Shall I make you shudder and cry torturously?" Something creases in Frankenstein's expression when Ragar quickly glances to him again. Frankenstein watches him warily, lips pressed into a flat line, and Ragar continues, crowding against Raizel, leaning over him as if to claim him in front of the eyes of his very Bonded. "Shall we be  _ friends _ , Sir Raizel?"

The concern and wariness that echoes down the shared link is acute, the inebriation having torn down a few layers of Frankenstein's mental shielding. Frankenstein is tense, ready to strike—because to speak so carelessly to Raizel is something that Frankenstein considers an offense towards himself—but he eases Frankenstein, soothing him in the best way he can, while he meets Ragar's seductive stare with a steely one. He is not here as Cadis Etrama di Raizel the Noblesse, as Frankenstein's Master—he is here today as their friends. A muscle on Frankenstein's face twitches—he's not entirely happy about this executive decision—but he sinks down into his seat nonetheless, eyes still fixed on their two tangled forms. 

Raizel's fingers sink into the layer of clothing covering Ragar's body—he could tear the fabric like it's nothing, but he is not keen on causing destruction, even for something like this. With the hold he brings him closer, until they are breathing in what the other exhales, then he awkwardly undulates against Ragar's knees. "Do your worst," Raizel taunts, lips quirked upwards in confidence he does not wholly feel, emulating what his friends would often do to get themselves in a mood.

"As you desire, Sir." He spares one last glance at Frankenstein, much like tossing a dog a bone, before sinking down to nip at Raizel's neck, baring teeth but not quite fangs. Ragar has been granted such liberties before—and even greater ones when away from Frankenstein's eyes—and so does not refrain from leaving his own share of pink blooms and impressions on Raizel's pale skin. Although he undoes the buttons of Raizel's blazer with care, he is coarse in shoving the clothes off of his partner. It is not in Ragar's nature to be as cruel or deriding as Frankenstein, but this does not mean he cannot be just as passionate. He knows what it is Raizel yearns for this night and will, as always, do his best for those dear to him.  _ A friend, _ Ragar reminds himself.  _ Just like a friend _ . 

Their mouths are on each other again, crushed together as though both of them know what it is to hunger. But suddenly, they part, and Ragar swiftly shoves aside boxes, bags, and empty bottles to make room on the table in the center onto which he shoves a dishevelled and rosy Raizel, pinning him by a now bare shoulder, towering over him so that Ragar's tall shadow falls on Raizel. Ragar can picture what Frankenstein's expression must look like, to see his master taken in such a way, but this is about Sir Raizel, first and foremost. 

Ragar's hand, fingers smooth, delicate, and forceful, slip in between Raizel’s legs to grasp at his cock, still warm, solid, and slick as Ragar grinds his own hips crudely against Raizel's partially uncovered ass, himself sighing with near silence. "You are enthralling, Sir. Please feel how hard I am for you," he says earnestly.

Raizel feels color creep onto his face, and he lets out a content sigh at the friction. "You are also... Ragar," he whispers, before meeting him in a demure kiss that immediately turns filthy with Ragar's cumulative experience with Frankenstein. He meets Frankenstein's gaze to the side with solid confidence, easing his Bonded who is still confused whether to be offended or aroused but tentatively settled on alert for now. Raizel brazenly presses his body against Ragar's groin, watching with amazement how that confidence melts into a pleased gasp for a split second. 

He is determined to have a good time. He is determined to learn, so he would find himself worthy of these two people who serve him so selflessly. 

Raizel looks down upon himself, at his pants half-removed, and properly slips them off, letting them pool around his ankles before he brings his body close again. He grinds down again, this time unrestricted by the tight tailored pants Frankenstein puts hours into making. Pleasure compiles with the increasing friction he is offered, and he determines that he could come like this, but,  _ but _ . "Is this all, Ragar?" Raizel cocks his head, the confidence coming to him easily despite the exposure. Attempting to ease Ragar's politeness, he moves his mouth to his ears and nips the soft skin there. "You do not need to hold back for my sake," he alleges. "You have said it yourself that we are friends..."

He sighs, momentarily closing his eyes to indulge in Raizel's subtle mercy. "Indeed..." Emboldened by both Raizel's words and the casual poison that sinks into his bloodstream, Ragar quickly draws out his cock and slips it between Raizel's thighs, rubbing against him in whorish ways, elevating the heady sensation of dull pleasure. He presses his fingers, wet enough with Sir Raizel's arousal, into that pale and—of course—perfect ass, sliding in smoothly, spreading him perversely, aggressive in his prodding. The experience of giving and receiving makes him shiver lovingly, ripples through his spine, weakness through his knees, but Ragar is not to be undone so easily. An idea occurs to him. "Sir Raizel..." He dips low, breath against ear and neck. The locks of hair framing his face caressing skin. "Sir Raizel...which cock is it that you prefer, mine or that of your Bonded?" 

It is a superfluous, meaningless question, but the look Ragar then gives Frankenstein dares the human to approach.

Raizel hums, riding out the fingers inside of him with grace that none would be able to replicate. Despite not having a drop of alcohol in him, he feels the haze of inebriation nonetheless, emboldening him and arming him. "They both... have merits," Raizel answers back without putting much thought into it—that is the point of this exercise, after all, to adopt the spontaneity and liveliness that humans wield so easily. Improvising, as much as that is not Raizel's nature. 

A debauched thought enters his mind, and as if drawn by it, Frankenstein rises from his seat to take broad, confident steps towards them until he arrives at the scene of their indecency. Their eyes meet for a split second, blues and crimson at the crossroads, then in agreement Frankenstein roughly grabs Ragar by the shoulders to grind his hip against Ragar's clothed ass. "Maybe you and Master cao have a discussion about that once you're finished, hm?" Frankenstein hisses lowly, voice dipping with arousal and derision. The lights from the television leave heavy shadows on Frankenstein's face, intensifying the sharpness of his features. "Since you—" 

Before he can say anything else, Raizel grabs Frankenstein by his hair to drag him into a messy, sloppy kiss as Ragar has shown him before. As Frankenstein melts against him, eyelids drooping until he's barely seeing, Raizel scants his gaze to Ragar and rolls his hips to drive the fingers deeper into him, as if trying to say  _ you may proceed, Ragar _ wordlessly.

Ragar finds himself embraced from both sides, pressed in between the Master and his Bonded. He grinds back against Frankenstein, feeling his friend's gratifying hardness as his fingers slip out of Raizel. When he gazes down, Ragar carefully takes in the sight of Raizel's pale skin and how it contrasts his dark hair: milk and ink. And his kissbitten lips: snow and blood. 

He pulls back, pressing into Frankenstein. He thrusts forward, sliding into Raizel. Heat wraps around him tightly, and Ragar takes a breath, the friction doing sweet things to his mind. "Sir Raizel, you accept me so easily. I will not hold back then." He tangles demanding fingers into Raizel's downy soft hair and pulls so that Raizel cranes his neck for him. Ragar fully takes advantage of being unmasked now.

Once heralded as a deity even among gods, there is little force in the known universe that could force Raizel to submission, yet he feels a strange sense of vulnerability as Ragar grazes his fangs against his clavicle, a warning and promise all at once. Drinking his blood would not do much to Ragar nor Raizel—blood pacts are something that nobles usually commit with other races, not among themselves, and Ragar would not be able to subjugate Raizel's absolute authority as the Noblesse—but the symbolism of taking another's blood is still exotic as a concept, and Raizel finds that he wants to learn. So Raizel raises both his arms, pressing Ragar's head against his neck, until faint pain blooms as the incisors break his mark-adorned skin, drawing scant blood. 

As expected, the melding of souls that usually accompanies drinking down his Bonded does not come, but Raizel feels pleasantly floaty, having been penetrated both under and over. Frankenstein stares blasphemed at the sight of his Master taken and marked like a mortal man, trying to determine how he feels about this, so Raizel doesn't give him time to think—he rolls his hips, pressing Ragar down towards Frankenstein, earning a simultaneous moan from both of them. He drags his finger into the wound, then slips it into Frankenstein's mouth. Immediately understanding the command, Frankenstein's tongue curls around the appendage, sucking away every drop that his Master has offered. 

And afterwards, when Frankenstein thrusts into Ragar, all sensations blur over and Raizel does not know if he is taking or being taken. His body burns with so much pleasure and he shudders, digging his own face into the crook of Ragar's neck. "More," he craves breathlessly, " _ more. _ "

Ragar takes in a startled breath, a tremor running through him as he arches with slow, indulgent grace, attempting to waylay the sudden pain that shoots up his spine and sparks in his mind when Frankenstein shoves himself into him, completely unprepared. Ragar’s movements are short and stilted, as he is still processing these overwhelming sensations, of fucking and of being fucked and of blood in his mouth. He groans quietly, leaning into Sir Raizel, as he slips deeper, burying the full length of his cock into him, abandoned and aggressive. 

His breathing: haggard, shallow, hot; he nears overstimulation. The tightness of fucking Raizel and the stretch of being fucked—it makes him keen and does strange, addicting things to his state of mind. Ragar cannot think of anything other than how good it feels and how much he wants to come and come, and when Frankenstein roughly grabs at his hair to bend him back to bite bluntly at his neck, as if to return the favor for biting his master, Ragar shudders, voice cracking just a bit as he gasps. 

"Sir—" he hisses. Ragar has not even the time to politely warn him before he is jerking forward and frantically clutching at Raizel's shirt as he comes, the coil in his core snapping. Come pulses through his cock incessantly, splattering Raizel on the inside as Ragar gently rocks in the smother of feeling good. It takes some effort for him to keep his knees from buckling, even if Frankenstein's hold on him remains firm. The cock still fucking his ass does not grant him rest even as Ragar is still reeling from his climax. 

"We're not done so soon, are we?" Frankenstein postures.

Ragar's cock is soft within him but he does not even attempt to pull back, instead choosing to burrow even deeper into Raizel’s body. As Ragar is trembling under the sensations, quiet gasps escaping from his bare lips freely and unmuffled by his usual mask, Raizel thinks he looks more than noble. Determined to ease some of Ragar’s effort, Raizel takes his two hands and places them flatly on Ragar’s shoulders to lift himself off of his cock. The mess from the previous round offers plenty of lubrication for him to slide effortlessly just until the head of Ragar’s cock is penetrating him, and some of it creams between the gap when Raizel slams his hips down to take the half-hard length deeply into him once again.

Ragar does nothing other than to keep one hand in an iron grip against Raizel's shirt, creasing the crisp material, and another in Frankenstein's hair, the organized locks falling out of place. Urged by Frankenstein's enamored, Raizel rolls his hips repeatedly to seek his own pleasure from Ragar's flaccid length; and assisted by Frankenstein’s acute push driving Ragar’s body even deeper into him, the tightness in his belly cascades until he finally tips over, ejaculate splattering between all three of them, dripping down to pool on the floor. When Raizel finally catches his breath once again, Ragar is fully hard and pulsing inside of him. 

He groans and sighs, scrambling to adjust to Frankenstein's pace as he feels Raizel squeeze and convulse around his hardening cock. Ragar watches Raizel come with a quaint sort of admiration—watches how the Noblesse dirties himself so seductively, so generously. The sight stirs something terrific and greedy within him, heart hammering, thrilled. Craving renewed, Ragar grinds back against Frankenstein, feeling that cock burrow deep inside of him, filling him tightly, pressing against his inner walls in ways that he loves so much, that make his breath flutter and his knees weak and his voice impolite. When Frankenstein slams into him with particular cruelty, Ragar buckles forward. 

Stars in his vision, but he manages to find Sir Raizel's mouth with his own to kiss him until they are both breathless. He rolls his hips, sliding within Raizel arrhythmically, hand again grasping and stroking Raizel's cock. All the sensation and the subtle violence of being fucked by Frankenstein brings Ragar up onto his toes even as it becomes difficult for him to not tip over.

Hunger and desperation slowly melt into languidness—neither of them are human, which means they have no particular need to breathe, so they stay lips locked as they twist their bodies, chasing their subsequent climax. Locked between the sensations of Ragar's cock splitting him wide open and hitting the spot within him, his hands rubbing a beguiling circle on his sensitive skin added by the heat of Ragar's body provided to him by Frankenstein unabashedly, his second orgasm builds quickly. 

Soon, the three of them are synchronized not just in rhythm, but also in frenzy. It is Frankenstein who spills first inside Ragar with a long groan, Ragar immediately following suit to add to the previous mess inside of Raizel. And with the splash against his walls as well as the white-hot pleasure bleeding over from the link, Raizel is able to tip himself over alongside his two friends, milking Ragar's cock for every drop of come he can manage. 

A bout of comfortable silence envelops all three of them as they slowly slide down from their respective highs. It is Frankenstein who breaks it first: a gentle susurrus asks if Raizel needs something, anything, and Raizel shakes his head marginally, regretful to escape the cozy post-orgasmic bliss. Frankenstein grunts, obviously seeking some ablution, but settles down with Raizel's placid suggestion. Raizel hopes the benign smile on his face is enough to encompass the gratitude he feels for Ragar, for now, until he can find his words.

Ragar quietly clears his throat, dipping his head once respectfully, breathing out as Frankenstein slips from him and feeling the resulting trail of come slide down his thigh, leaving a line of coldness on his skin. When Ragar finally pulls out of Raizel as well, he takes a moment to carefully observe: how Ragar's release spills lazily out of Raizel, how Raizel's own come wets his thighs and stomach and shines under the lights and smears the edges of his shirt. Ragar watches the subtle rise and fall of Raizel's chest and the flush that dusts his face with great appreciation for a long moment. Until he suddenly blinks and straightens as if now realizing the time and place they occupy. "Perhaps we should—clean up," Ragar suggests. He pulls up his mask again.

* * *

Ragar leans back into the couch, eyes half closed and arms crossed, now neatly put together once again, every strand of hair tucked into place. 

Frankenstein speaks without much restraint as he sits between Ragar and his master. "You see, I was being perfectly courteous, but she has  _ the gall _ to turn to me and smile her innocent little smile and offer her unnecessary gardening advice, as though she thinks  _ I _ don't know my shit?" Frankenstein takes a long swig from the bottle in his hand. "That fucker—" 

"Franken..."

"I believe you have had enough for tonight." Ragar eyes his friend flatly as he holds out an expectant hand. Frankenstein stares back for a moment before petulantly shoving the bottle over. The chill of glass against his palm, Ragar tips his mask down and casually, generously drinks for himself as well, renewing the warm buzz of alcohol. He is not very conscious of the passage of time at this point, but by the time Ragar finishes their final bottle, he finds that Frankenstein has tipped over to doze against Raizel's shoulder. Ragar tugs at his mask as he looks over at the two of them affectionately. "Perhaps it is a late enough hour and we should depart, Sir," he says quietly.

Raizel nods graciously, the motion startling Frankenstein drooped over him and waking him up. "It is time to go," he informs his Bonded, who only exhales softly and attempts to rise to his two feet, achieving his goal with staggering will power. Raizel eyes him with concern, but Frankenstein only smiles easily to him, taking a step forward boldly. 

Before the wobble even registers in Raizel's mind—forget doing anything about it—Ragar is immediately beside his friend, steadying him with a hand to his back and another to his chest. Frankenstein glares at Ragar, like he finds it offensive that Ragar has intervened to stop him from colliding face-first into the table. 

"I will take him," Raizel informs him, eyeing the way how Ragar stumbles on his feet as well—just because Ragar hides it better does not mean he is any less intoxicated. Ragar hesitates but nods, letting Raizel take Frankenstein's weight. Ignoring Frankenstein's unvoiced remonstration Raizel steps forward until Frankenstein is sprawled over his entire upper body, golden tufts tickling his cheeks. With a little more difficulty, Raizel heads to the door, dragging his feet until the tip of his shoes hit the start of the stairs.

"Be careful, Master," Frankenstein has the barest energy to slur as they step up the stairs and exit the establishment. "D'n't wantyou to get hurt anymore..."

The early morning air is somewhat sobering, but it will be some time before Ragar is able to drive again—responsibly, at least—so the three of them shuffle, dark silhouettes against dark sky, to a near enough park bench and settle into the cold steel seats. Raizel sits in between them, Frankenstein leaning against one shoulder and Ragar seated closely enough to touch the opposite one. The quiet of the night is broken by the sound of a police siren somewhere in the distance. A breeze blows a stray plastic bag down an alley. The graceful form of a cat slips in and out of the shadows. Ragar knows that Sir Raizel takes great care in appreciating such mundane, quiet happenings and so acts as a silent companion beside him, appreciating the same things just as much, almost gleeful within. They sit like this, silent, for a while, before Ragar turns to him. "Have you enjoyed yourself tonight, Sir?" 

Raizel looks at him, eyes set in a pale face like red jewels that momentarily catch the sparse light in compelling ways. "I have." He looks forward again. "Thank you...Ragar, for everything." 

Ragar tugs at his mask. He knows the weight of Raizel's statement and accepts his regard entirely as though it is duty. "To you as well," Ragar insists, the expression in his eyes turning bright with the hope of inspiring confidence within their tragic, kind Raizel, whom he knows is haunted by the 820 year long absence just as much as the other two are. Ragar leans further into him. "Sir Raizel...it is cold. May I have the liberty of lending you my jacket?" 

Raizel glances at him, recognition of deja vu lighting up his eyes. He nods. "You may." 

Eagerly, he slips the jacket off of himself and drapes it over Raizel's shoulders and Frankenstein, shielding them both just a little from the uncaring chill with remnants of his generated warmth. Ragar looks at the both of them brightly, satisfied with his work, before settling down, pressed close to Raizel's shoulder again.

They sit in silence before Ragar is startled out of his nearly meditative daze by a tentative touch against his fingers. "Sir Raizel?" 

"Your hands...they are cold."

"Ah..." The quiet way Raizel offers this gesture, characterized by tender uncertainty, endears Ragar endlessly. "Thank you, Sir." His lips curl into a pleasant smile behind his mask as Raizel grasps his hand companionably. 

Time slips from them. 

"We are both grateful to have you have returned to us, Sir Raizel..." 

Something stirs in the leaves—a bird, perhaps. 

"As am I, for the both of you to have me again, despite my..." 

"Sir Raizel." 

When Raizel faces him, he finds Ragar's face separated from his own by only a breath. "May I have the liberty...?" Ragar asks.

Raizel pauses. "You may." 

His chin is tilted upwards. The pale blue that bleeds into the sky turns dark as he closes his eyes. Their lips are separated from each other only by the fabric of Ragar's mask. 

By the time they make the journey back home in the car, they are accompanied by birdsong and the break of morning light.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join the [Cadiscord Discord Server](https://discord.gg/hSVkdHj) and hang out with us! (Recommended age is 17+.)


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